Inked
by slyprentice
Summary: On a scale from one to ten on his terrible morning after's meter, Foggy figured that this was probably a twelve. Maybe a thirteen and a half if you factored in the fact that he was completely naked. Eventual Matt/Foggy.


**Title** : Inked  
 **Author** : Prentice  
 **Rating** : Mature  
 **Category** : Eventual Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Angst  
 **Fandom** : Daredevil (TV)  
 **Pairing** : Matt/Foggy  
 **Warnings** : Saucy language and bad decisions made under the influence.  
 **Summary** : On a scale from one to ten on his terrible morning after's meter, Foggy figured that this was probably a twelve. Maybe a thirteen and a half, if you factored in the fact that he was completely naked.

 **Author's Notes** : Written for a 'tattoo' prompt on the daredevil kink meme. This won't be a long fic; I only plan on one or two more parts. Enjoy!

* * *

On a scale from one to ten on his terrible morning after's meter, Foggy figured that this was probably a twelve. Maybe a thirteen and a half, if you factored in the fact that he was completely naked. Which, really, might have brought it back down to an eight point five if it wasn't for the fact that he was completely naked and alone.

Which sucked because, honestly, the last thing he could clearly remember was talking to that smoking hot blond from his Ethics class while keeping one eye on his roommate. Not that he needed to. Matty could take care of himself and didn't seem to be having any problems if the brunette on his arm was any indication.

Nevertheless, Foggy liked to keep an eye on him just in case. There were some real assholes out there, especially this close to campus and, while Foggy couldn't understand it, they seemed to think it was hilarious to harass the blind guy after they got a couple of drinks in them. Fucking dickheads, the lot of them.

Foggy had gotten in more arguments and near fistfights than he ever cared to admit because of it and he knew – knew, in that bone-deep instinctual way that all people who knew what it was like to get picked on did – that one day somebody was going to hit him. Probably in the face. Which would hurt. At least Matty would be okay, though.

…yeah, he'd probably shown his hand there, at least in regards to his feelings about Matt, because this was getting kind of ridiculous. Matt had already let him down easy pretty much within the first few minutes of meeting, so it was slightly pathetic that he was still holding a torch for the guy after all this time, but it wasn't like he could help it. Matt was Matt and Foggy really liked Matt.

That didn't matter, though, because nothing would ever come of it, so the least Foggy could do was not spill all his feelings all over everything everywhere. Also, not be a dick, which meant being Matt's friend. Best friend now, which kind of made him feel awesome but also maybe, in the confines of his own head, a little sad because bro-friends were not supposed to lust after each other or harbor deep and abiding crushes that felt a little bit more like love each and every day.

Which, you know, it sucked, but then again it also didn't suck so Foggy went with it. And, yeah, sure, maybe he had a bad day every once in a while. Got moody and a little pissy – because fuck you, Matt, and your stupid handsome face – but he was a college student with massive student loans and a workload that would have made lesser men weep so it was excusable. Hell, even Matty got pissy every once in a while, because sometimes life sucked, but they both got through it all right.

That, of course, still didn't explain this, though. Because Foggy could have sworn – sworn, full emphasis and everything – that even though he'd been flirting the flirt of the truly inebriated last night, he hadn't actually planned on going home with anyone. Matt possibly had – did, by the looks of their still empty dorm room – but Foggy didn't so he couldn't really explain the lack of clothes or the pain aching softly along his collarbone.

So, yeah, back to the twelve – well, thirteen and a half – on his morning after meter because now that he'd actually forced himself queasily to his feet to find the small mirror he kept in his shaving kit – that he rarely used, damn this baby face – he could see two very obvious facts. The first was that he looked like shit; he always did after a night of hard drinking, which was becoming less and less frequent now that he and Matt were closing in on their dreams, but this morning seemed to be particularly special because he was splotchy red and pale, with dark circles under his eyes that made him look sick. The second was that he had a bandage stretching across the length of his left clavicle.

Which wasn't good. Wasn't good at all. In fact, it was bordering on 'oh fuck, Nelson, what have you done' levels of not good.

Swallowing – god he felt sick; tender and weak in ways that reminded him why overindulging was a horrible idea – he lifted a hand and carefully pulled at the edges of the tape holding the bandage in place. It came away easy, the edges of it already curling from where it had rubbed against the bedding too many times, and Foggy swallowed again because there was speckles of blood on the white gauze but also – also –

Oh Jesus Fucking Christ.

He'd gotten a tattoo.

A tattoo.

But – oh god, oh shit – not just any tattoo. Oh no, it was special. It was – was –

It was a name.

A full fucking name.

In dark black ink.

Scrawled across the top of his collarbone, where the skin was still a little tender from where it had been rubbing against the bandage all night, was a name he knew by heart.

Matthew Michael Murdock.

His roommate's name. His best friend's name. His – his – Matt's name.

Matt's freaking name.

Jesus.

Oh, Christ.

How could he have been that – that – stupid? That drunk? That – that –

Fingers shaking, Foggy blinked. Blinked again. Blinked harder.

Because this wasn't possible. It just – it wasn't possible. He couldn't have been that stupid. He couldn't have actually thought…

A memory, like a hammer striking a nail, slammed into him. Crashed into him. Fucking destroyed him, because now he could remember a part of it. Not all of it but – but some of it.

Snapshots of the night before. Of the bar he'd dragged Matt to. Of the hot blond he'd been flirting with. Of the pretty brunette that Matt had been chatting with. Of Matt – of Matt leaving with said brunette and never coming back. Of the horribly familiar pain that had lanced through his gut when he realized it.

Then the drinks and the drinks and the more drinks. The maudlin gush of feelings that the hot blond had been surprisingly nice and sympathetic about. The long walk in cool crisp air and the startled realization – the epiphany – that Foggy will probably never have Matt but Matt would always have Foggy.

That he belonged to Matt. Matt, Matt, and Matt alone. That every part of him was Matt's.

And then – a blur of blinking lights outside a tattoo parlor, the smell of patchouli and something sterile, and the dulled pinch of needles and ink. The calling of a taxi, the paying of a bill, and him stumbling into his dorm room. His empty, empty dorm room and the bitter taste of something sour and salty.

Oh, god.

God.

He was never drinking again. He was really never drinking again. Never ever again.

Because this was – it was ridiculous. It was stupid. He was stupid and now he had a tattoo to show for it, and yeah, maybe he could get it removed but that cost money and he didn't have any and – and – he kind of maybe liked the way Matt's name looked on his skin and this was – he was –

Matt would never know about it. He could never know about it. It would be – it would be Foggy's secret. His own personal secret and no one would ever know about it. Matt, especially Matt.

He could never ever know.

Foggy would make sure of it.


End file.
